


Crossed Wires

by wyntereyez



Series: Talk to the Hand [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Gender Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntereyez/pseuds/wyntereyez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AKA: Five Ways the Biological Metacrisis Has Gone Wrong (And One Way It’s Gone Very Right)</p><p>Rose discovers that, during the Metacrisis, the Doctor’s wires got a little crossed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cosmetics

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ and ff.net back in 2009, this has spawned several sequels. I'm kinda proud of it.

**I. Cosmetics**

She isn’t aware there’s anything wrong at first. Well, wrong beyond the hand that is strangely warm in hers, or the solitary heart beating frantically beneath his ribs, or the look of confusion on his face as they stare at each other, wondering how they’d come to this point.

He opens his mouth, and she leans forward, hoping he’ll say something profound. She’d quite liked “I love you;” a girl could get used to that. And with the Doctor’s loquacity, she knows he can expound at great length on the subject. So she waits, breath held in anticipation.

“We match!” His voice is high with excitement.

Huh? Okay, not what she expected, but she waits patiently. The Doctor’s logic isn’t always easy to follow, taking twists and turns and detours no one would expect, but it tended to get somewhere. Eventually. But rather than explain, the Doctor continues to stare at her, grinning widely as he waits for her to react to what he seems to view as a stunning proclamation. “Whuh?” she finally ventures. 

“Our _clothes_ ,” he said impatiently. “Blue jackets, red shirts… it’s brilliant! We look like one of those cute couples who dresses alike! One of Donna’s glamour magazines had a great article last month about couples dressing alike. Not sure that shade of blue suits you, though,” he added critically. “You’d look better in a lighter blue. Or pink! Pink and yellow.”

Rose blinks. Then blinks again. She opens her mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again. Then is spared the embarrassment of not having an answer by her mum’s habit of blithely interrupting any conversation that would dare to exclude her. Rose thinks she could kiss her. 

“Pete’s sending a limo.” She eyes the Doctor, who’s still looking at Rose with that goofy grin. “Well, isn’t this handy? Now you have no excuse not to go to the wedding!” Jackie gushes.

Never mind the kiss. Only her mother could face the end of everything and come away thinking about the year’s biggest party.

“Wedding?” the Doctor visibly pricks up, which amazes Rose because she hadn’t thought it was physically possible for him to get even more excited without seriously straining something. “What wedding? I _love_ weddings!” His voice has become almost too high-pitched for human hearing.

_Since when?_ Rose wonders. But she holds her tongue, knowing that between these two, she won’t get a word in edgewise.

“President Jones’ daughter Madelaine! She’s marrying Jimmy Stone, the lead guitarist from the DedHeds! Rose used to date Jimmy back in our world, you know,” she continues conspiratorially. “Total tosser, that one. Not at all like this Jimmy.” 

“Mum,” Rose hisses. She does not want the Doctor treated to The Complete History of Rose Tyler’s Sex Life, as told by her mum. 

Fortunately, Jackie has other things on her mind. “Rose was asked to be a bridesmaid,” she says. “But she’s been just full of excuses. ‘I have to save the world, Mum.’ ‘I don’t have a date, Mum.’ ‘I’m going to be in a parallel world, Mum.’” Jackie snorted. “I told Harriet — can you believe that? I’m on a first name basis with the President! — that of course Rose will be a bridesmaid; she’s just too overwhelmed by the offer to respond!”

A discussion of Rose’s dress follows, and she finds herself bored with talk of lace and wine-colored satin, of corsets and corsages and whether Rose should dye her hair or not. She’s starting to feel like a doll.

They’re still talking when the limo arrives to take them to Bergen. The Doctor takes the seat across from Jackie, oblivious to the feel of Rose’s thigh pressed against his. Rose wishes she could be as oblivious; talk of the wedding is driving her spare. She tries to distract herself and ends up watching him, this other Doctor who is focused on Jackie with the same wonder and intensity he’d once given to the mysteries of the universe. He’d gazed at her like that before the TARDIS abandoned them.

He’s leaning forward, eyes alight, hanging on every word as Jackie describes the upcoming nuptials in excruciating detail. She swears he was actually salivating at one point, when Jackie reels off a guest list that sounds like it would be more at home at a Hollywood premiere.

Okay… so he has an interest in domestics. No big deal. Might as well get used to it, since he’s doomed to a lifetime of them.

~oOo~

They spend the night at her flat, with the Doctor curled on the couch wrapped in a duvet the same color as the TARDIS. Rose checks on him first thing in the morning, seeing that he has kicked off the duvet and is now sprawled across the couch cushions, his hair a spiky mess and his burgundy shirt rucked up and showing a good amount of bare abdomen. There’s a fashion magazine laying open on his chest, a curious choice of reading material when she has several science and nature magazines on her shelves. There are dark rings around his eyes, and she wonders when he finally went to sleep.

She resists the urge to ruffle his hair and heads towards the loo. 

Her lip gloss is missing. She’s not sure why that’s the first thing she notices when she stumbles into the bathroom that morning, but it is conspicuous by its absence. The rest of her make-up is scattered around the counter as well, and she eyes it in confusion. She’s sure she usually keeps it in a more orderly fashion. Perhaps the Doctor had accidentally knocked it all off and replaced it, and the lip gloss had been overlooked.

But a quick look around proves futile; her Strawberry Sparkle, water-resistant, lip-plumping, smear-proof, sex-now-please lip gloss that has withstood invasions of Daleks and Cybermen, is gone.

Puzzled, Rose finishes up in the bathroom, then heads out. The sound of the Doctor shifting on the couch draws her back into the living room, and she stands in the doorway, watching. At first, she is enjoying the sight of him all rumpled and groggy and adorably confused, and then something else catches her attention. Her lip gloss.

It’s sitting on the coffee table, open. And the tube is nearly empty.

She stares. Those aren’t bags around his eyes… he’s wearing enough eye shadow to be mistaken for a panda. And, she notices with a flash of irritation, he had the kind of eyelashes that mascara were made for mascara.

Not quite sure how to react, she walks over to the table and picks up the tube. Bright panda eyes watch her, and the Doctor sits upright, his expression guilty.

“Rose, about the lip gloss…” He rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“Yes?” she encourages, waiting for an explanation (and oh, how she wants an explanation!), or at least an apology. That had been expensive lip gloss.

His tongue flicks out, running over his pouty, plump, glossy lips. “Does it come in banana flavor?”

~tbc~


	2. Gossip

**II. Gossip**

Rose spends the entirety of her next day at work devising a history for the Doctor, aka Dr. John Smith. It’s easier said than done; the Doctor elects that morning to stay home and adjust to his body and, when he licks those pouty, strawberry red lips, she finds herself automatically agreeing with whatever he says.

Unfortunately, the state of bliss caused by the memory of those kissable lips — which she did not get to try out, thanks to an ill-timed phone call — doesn’t last long. Rose has helped create fake personas before, of course, but they had been temporary IDs for visitors from other planets; short term identities that would hold up under casual inspection, not the careful scrutiny a friend of the Tyler family would be subjected to. The Doctor needs an entire life built from scratch, and without his input, she has to make every decision for him, from what university he attended, what degrees he’s earned, and even what age he stopped wetting the bed (seven, she’d decided in a fit of pique.) 

By the time Tosh points out that a minor criminal record wouldn’t hurt, Rose is so frustrated that she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind her mind. So now the Doctor has three counts of public indecency — streaking — forever on his record. 

But it’s done, she has his ID in her hand, and he’d better not complain or she’ll file his documents where the sun doesn’t shine.

Rose enters her flat, and her ears are immediately assaulted by a pair of high, girlish giggles. One of them she’s certain is the Doctor, simply because he was here when she left and she doubts her flat has been broken into by Barbie and friends.

And then conversation resumes, and Rose blinks. _Mum?_ What is her mum doing here? Talking to the Doctor? She’d thought yesterday was a fluke, but here they are, talking like the bestest of friends! She heads towards the kitchen. Stops. Stares. It looks for all the world like her mum is giving the Doctor a manicure.

“-only, in this universe, there is no Brangelina. He’s still with Jennifer Aniston and Angelina’s a lesbian.”

“No!” gasps the Doctor.

“Yes!” Jackie nods emphatically. 

Rose continues to stand slack-jawed. The Doctor is seated, a towel wrapped around his head. Jackie is hovering over his left hand, her back to Rose. With his other hand, the Doctor is paging through a magazine. She quickly recovers what is left of her composure and clears her throat.

“Am I interrupting, ladies?” Rose asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh! Hello, Rose! Your mum was just telling me how Pete’s World differs from ours! It’s very important that I know these things if I want to fit in,” he says, nodding sagely.

“Yes… you won’t get far in this world without knowing that TomKat broke up after he had an affair with the nanny,” Rose mutters.

“Really?” The Doctor’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, and his mouth forms an ‘o’ of surprise. Rose thinks she’s seen that expression before on Donna’s face.

“It was last year’s biggest scandal!” Jackie interjected eagerly, ignoring Rose’s eyerolling. “She threw him out and was awarded most of his money, and now he supposedly lives in a tiny flat taking whatever roles he can find!”

“What are you doing here, Mum?” Rose asks, exasperated. 

Jackie places her hands on her hips. “I’m your mother, Rose — I’m allowed to stop by for a visit! Anyway, I needed to drop off the schedule for the wedding.” She nods at a packet on Rose’s dining table, which looks thick enough to be the manuscript for the next Harry Potter book (nine volumes and still going!) “And then the Doctor asked me for help, and I couldn’t just leave him all on his own!” She unwinds the towel from his head, and once again Rose is rendered speechless as the rust-colored tufts of his hair are revealed.

“I thought I’d give ginger hair a try!” the Doctor beams. He runs his fingers through his newly dyed locks, and for the first time, Rose notices his carefully manicured nails are painted red.

Which perfectly matches his visible toe nails.

“Your mum offered to help,” he continues. “You never told me she used to be a beautician! That’s brilliant!”

Jackie runs her fingers through his hair, checking his roots. She nods in satisfaction. “Still got it.” She begins to gather up her tools of the trade, Rose automatically falling in to help. The Doctor ignores them, preferring to admire his new look in the mirror. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes — have to pick Tony up from the sitter’s before he drives her crazy. I’ll ring tomorrow, yeah?”

“You… you painted his finger nails. And his toe nails.” Rose’s voice is weak.

“He asked. I was worried my skills were a little rusty after living as the Vitex wife, but I haven’t lost my touch,” Jackie grins in satisfaction. 

“And… you don’t see anything weird about it?” Rose gapes.

“He’s an alien,” Jackie shrugs. “I just assumed his culture did things differently then ours. Or I figured it could be a regeneration quirk — the other Doctor ate your lipstick after he regenerated; this isn’t all that different.”

Once again, Rose is struck dumb. _So that’s what happened to my Passion Pink lipstick…_ Rose is starting to see why her mum was so set against her hanging around with the Doctor. 

She walks Jackie to the waiting car, then heads back in. The Doctor has found the manila envelope with his new ID, and he looks up at her entrance and frowns.

“’John Smith’?” he asks, crestfallen. “Is that the best you could come up with?”

She stares. “It’s the name you always use!” she snaps indignantly.

“But I’m the New New New Doctor!” he sulks. “I think it’s time for a new name, don’t you? Like… Alonzo! Or Antonio! Fernando! Or Bob! I’ve never been a Bob before. I like the sound of it. Bob. Booooooob. Spelled the same backwards and forwards!”

“900 years — you’ll cope,” she throws back. “If you don’t like it, you can just go to Torchwood and change it yourself.”

He says that he’ll go to Torchwood later, mumbling something about working there part time, then launches into an enthusiastic babble about various alien tech he hopes to find that will assist the ‘shatterfry process,’ whatever that is. She suspects it involved chips. She isn’t sure how she feels about him wanting to use a secret, technologically advanced institution dedicated to alien encounters for fast food purposes. 

She’s fairly certain Pete wouldn’t fund that. But then, she’d also been sure he wouldn’t go for Nude Tuesdays (Optional) and she’d been rather shocked by his decision on that.

She realizes he’s still going on, and struggles to pay attention. It doesn’t help that his lips are still plump from her lip gloss, begging to be kissed, and the way his slightly damp newly-ginger hair looks against his pale, freckled skin is driving her wild.

“I did a lot of soul searching while you were gone, thinking about what I can do with my life. And I realized I don’t want to spend it all at Torchwood. I’ve got better things to do than help you figure out alien tech you’ll use for no doubt nefarious purposes. Oh, I’ll still step in when needed, do some advising and make some brilliant last-minute saves, and maybe I’ll even come in on weekends — though not Sundays, can’t stand Sundays — but I want to do something else with my life, and now I’m free to live out my dreams!”

She wants to object to the ‘nefarious purposes’ bit, but then, she is trapped in a parallel world for that exact reason. “Okay…” she supposes this is normal. He’s trying to develop his own identity, not live in the other’s shadow. Probably one of the reasons he’d dyed his hair. She gives him a week before he starts blowing things up out of sheer boredom. “You don’t need to decide what to do with your life right away. We have time,” she says, resting her hand on his arm and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll help you any way I can.”

“But I know what I want to do with my life, Rose!” he says excitedly. He waves around the gossip rag that her mum has left behind. “I want to be a gossip columnist!”

 

~tbc~


	3. Fashion

**III. Fashion**

Rose spends most of that night tossing and turning. She is very aware of the Doctor once again sleeping on her couch (at least, she assumes he’s sleeping; he could very well be in her bathroom again trying out her hair care products.)

She wonders what’s going to happen next. He can’t stay on her couch forever, but his migration from the sofa to her bed doesn’t look like it’s going to happen any time soon. Except for a kiss and his comment on the beach about ‘matching couples,’ their relationship seems entirely platonic. He hasn’t snuck any glances, stolen any intimate caresses, hasn’t even spoken to her except to ask (mostly gossipy) questions about Pete’s World. He’s more like a roomie than a potential mate.

It can’t go on like this. Every time he thrusts out his lower lip, she wants to bite it. Every flick of his tongue makes her wonder just how flexible it is, how it would feel in her mouth or running over her skin. She wants to feel that single heart hammer beneath her hands, or cup his tight bum. She sighs and wonders how long it takes to die from Unresolved Sexual Tension. 

She tries to distract herself by thinking about the Doctor’s declaration. A gossip columnist? How does he think he’s going to pull that off? He has no journalistic or literature education (she should know, she set up his background!), no experience, no knowledge of who is dating whom, or which stars/movies/bands are hot in this universe… no gossip rag will take him seriously.

Who is she kidding? With his charm, charisma, and good looks, he’ll not only talk his way into a job within the week, but will have celebrities eating out of his hands, as well. Rose bets he’ll have his own talk show within the year.

Could be worse, she supposes. He could want to go into politics.

He’s just so… different, she doesn’t know what she’s going to do. Yeah, same memories, and yeah, she can see that same curiosity, the same determination, the same quirkiness that had originally drawn her to him. It’s just taking a new direction, one so alien to the Doctor she knew that it’s like he’s a completely different person.

What they need, she decides, is to spend time together. Maybe, the more she gets to know him, the more she’ll see his inherent Doctorish-ness. She needs to find an environment where he’ll be comfortable, and open up to her.

Remembering his reading material from that morning, she decides to take him shopping. Pete has given him a credit card along with his new ID. He needs new clothing, anyway. And a tux, she thinks distastefully. She doesn’t think this Doctor would let anything stop him from attending the wedding, short of the end of the world. And even that might politely wait until after the vows were exchanged before daring to interrupt the biggest event of the year.

So. Shopping. That won’t be so bad, right?

~oOo~

It takes him three hours to max out the credit card Pete has given him, and it only takes that long because the Doctor visits multiple stores. Once time taken for driving and the fitting of his tux is factored out, Rose figures he spent nearly ten thousand pounds in twenty minutes. Tops.

They started with the tuxedo, the Doctor whining all the while. The tailor had initially been thrilled to offer his services to the Vitex heiress, but after ten minutes of putting up with the Doctor’s fidgeting that resulted in several needle punctures for both, the tailor became reticent and selectively clumsier, somehow managing to time his jabs for the Doctor’s loudest complaints. 

Rose watches the entire process; the tailor didn’t want to be left alone with his mad, babbling customer, no matter how large his credit limit.

“What’s wrong with tuxedos?” Rose finally asks as the tailor disappears with the rudiments of what will eventually be a gorgeous — and expensive — tux. “I’ve seen you in one, Doctor. You looked good.” _Understatement of the year,_ Rose thinks, remembering their first visit to Pete’s World and their brief stint as servants. The only reason she’d been able to resist the urge to grab him by the bowtie and haul him into the linen closet was that the Cybermen had broken in before she found a suitable closet.

“Martha said I looked like James Bond,” he preens. Then his face falls. “But tuxedos are bad luck. Bad things happen when I wear one.”

“As opposed to all the super-fun-happy stuff that happens when you wear your suits?” Rose asks archly.

He actually has to think about this one for a moment. “That’s different,” he finally says dismissively, and chooses not to clarify. Meaning, of course, that she is right. But he doesn’t fuss about the tuxedo any more, and perks up when she tells him the style of tux he’s chosen makes him far more than James Bond could ever be. The tailor rolls his eyes, mutters something about skinny idiots, then tells them he’ll have the tuxedo finished two days before the wedding, and reluctantly suggests the Doctor comes in for a final fitting then.

She takes him to Henriks next, and it’s here that things start going wrong. His dress sense hasn’t changed much - though he seems to have developed an affinity for the color pink — and it has evolved enough to include casual clothes as well as his customary suits (to be made by another frazzled tailor. Rose suspects that, after this, no tailor will ever work for a Tyler or Known Tyler Associate ever again.)

They survive the actual clothes-buying process, but what bothers Rose is the Doctor’s unending commentary as he shops. He can’t seem to help but talk about how a color that would look good on him would make her look fat, or how a passing man with a few extra pounds should not have wedged himself into that suit, or how one woman’s shoes were sooo last year.

It reminds her of shopping with Shireen when they were sixteen. “Rude,” she whispers into his ear, and he starts, his face honestly surprised. He slumps, apologizes to the woman and mumbles something about his mouth sometimes getting away from him. Rose purses her lips and regards him silently. This tendency towards obnoxiousness is going to get him in trouble, especially since he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

They escape the clothing department with only a few scorching glares and a hello of a lot of bags. Rose has the use of the Torchwood SUV for the day, and she doubts there’s room enough.

Toiletries are also fun, in very different and terrifying ways. The Doctor not only has to smell every available shampoo, aftershave, or cologne — he has to taste them. She would be amused by the expressions of sheer horror on the faces of the sales reps as he licks a handful of foam, except she is certain the same expression is on her own face.

She hopes he still has Magical Time Lord Saliva that can break down toxins, because she doesn’t want to explain this when he’s in a hospital getting his stomach pumped.

Their last stop is a book store, where Rose wants to pick up the latest thriller by her favorite author, and it’s there that the shopping excursion takes its final downhill plunge.

“So that’s Jimmy Stone? The one who you lost your virginity to?”

Rose’s head whips up from the _National Geographic_ she’s perusing, horrified that he might want to go into detail in the middle of the bookstore. 

He’s holding a celeb magazine, which has Jimmy Stone on the cover with his fiancée, Madelaine Jones. 

“Yeah,” she says slowly, her eyes never leaving the Doctor. She feels a flicker of hope at this sudden interest in past beaus; is he jealous? “Though my world’s Jimmy had dreadlocks and the start of a beer gut. This Jimmy is very… dishy,” she prods gently.

“Dishy,” he repeats approvingly, “dashing, delectable, debonair…” his complete lack of anger over another man touching her dashes her hopes. Not only that, but he is practically drooling over said man… Rose begins to suspect her relationship with the Doctor is more hopeless than she initially thought.

“’spose so,” Rose sighs. 

“So,” the Doctor asks curiously, his eyes bright. “What was he like?”

Rose just closes her eyes and smacks her palm against her forehead.

~tbc~

It will eventually be Ten-II/Rose. I know it doesn’t look that way, but I’m going somewhere with this. Trust me.


	4. Hormones

**IV. Hormones**

Rose waits at the bathroom door for forty five minutes before she finally loses patience. She’s exhausted, having spent another restive night wondering what to do about the Doctor and still not finding any answers. She’s desperate for a shower to help her wake up, and access to her diminished make-up supplies so she can hide the bags under her eyes. Unfortunately, the Doctor seems to have taken up residence in the bathroom, and shows no sign of coming out any time soon.

“I’m gonna be late for work!” she yells through the door. A muffled “umph” is the only answer.

He finally comes out, and she breathes a sigh of relief when she sees he’s make-up free and smells like the soap and aftershave he’d picked out. Perhaps her mum is right, and yesterday was a regeneration-style fluke.

Yet, she can’t help but notice that the nails of his manly, hairy hands are still painted red. 

“I’m going to Torchwood with you,” he announces as he retrieves one of the bags of his new clothing from behind the couch. He begins to rifle through the contents, humming some new pop song by an artist whose name Rose has already forgotten. She knows she should head go take her shower (assuming he’s left any hot water for her), but she’s distracted by the sight of him clad only in a pink towel, his ginger hair damp and his freckled skin flushed. Silently, she wills the towel to slip, but it remains stubbornly in place.

“Gonna change your name, Bob?” she teases.

He shakes his head. “Nope. Couldn’t think of a name I really liked. At least I answer to John Smith, anyway.” Much to her surprise, he selects a T-shirt and jeans; despite his eagerness to buy half of the stock at Henriks, Rose hadn’t thought he’d actually wear any of it. And, if she remembers correctly from his whirlwind clothes try-on (during which he’d strutted around in each outfit like a model on a catwalk), this pair of jeans fits him snugly, like a second skin.

Rose might be drooling, just a little bit.

“I did think of something else, though. I’ve come up with a great name for my column! ‘Talk to the Hand!’” He wiggles his right hand in front of her face, as though she wouldn’t get the joke. 

She has to admit, that is kind of clever, even if no one else will get the joke.

He yanks on the clothes, oblivious to her watching eyes (oh, yeah, those jeans leave very little to the imagination) and runs his fingers through his ginger hair. He suddenly becomes aware of her scrutiny, if not the line of drool dangling from her mouth, and he smirks.

“You know, Rose, we need to be at Torchwood in ten minutes, and you’re not even ready yet. Not very professional, is it?”

She glowers, then rushes off to the shower.

~oOo~

Rose has been given use of the Torchwood SUV, a privilege she doesn’t abuse. Often. It’s a good vehicle for her, considering her driving skills are negligible; at least when she hits something, the SUV escapes without a scratch. There are some lamp posts that will never be the same again, however…

Fortunately, besides a disappointed “It’s smaller on the inside,” the Doctor really doesn’t have much to say about the environment-destroying tank-on-wheels or her skills in driving it. He’s more interested in what he’s brought with him. He’s looking at that stupid magazine, the one with Jimmy Stone on the cover.

“So. Jimmy. Tell me about him.”

“Doctor, I told you-“

The Doctor rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking about the sordid details of your little fling with Other Jimmy,” he says. “If I want those, I’ll ask your mum. No, I want to know his story. It says here,” he waves the magazine about, oblivious to the fact that it’s distracting her and almost causes her to swerve into another car, “that he gave up drinking, drugs, the whole party lifestyle, virtually overnight when he met Madelaine.”

Rose has to admit, she’d found it romantic. “Jimmy was hard core: drugs, booze, women, you name the vice, he had it. Then he met Madelaine one night, when she came backstage after a concert, and he fell in love. The papers call it the ‘Greatest Love Story of Our Time,’” she says wistfully. She knows a tale about a 19-year-old shop girl and a 900-year-old alien that could’ve deserved that title. Well, she’d have corrected it to ‘of All Time.’ “He gave up everything to be a better man for her,” she whispers.

She glances over at the Doctor, sees him watching her, expression haunted. Then he turns his attention back to the magazine, and the moment is lost. “It says his entire band went clean at the same time, also in the span of twenty-four hours, without the benefit of rehab, or discovering God, or being threatened by aliens who will destroy the planet if the DedHeds don’t stay sober. It’s just… unusual, isn’t it?”

“It’s the power of love,” Rose says, then grimaces at how cheesy that sounds. She needs to lay off the romance novels for awhile.

The Doctor just raises his eyebrows, and goes back to examining the full-page photos of the band. “That’s an interesting mole he has. Right at the base of his throat.” The Doctor taps the hollow of his own throat absently.

“Just like you,” Rose observes flatly. If he thinks that means they’re soul mates, she’s ordering him out of the SUV and into oncoming traffic.

He starts. “What? No! Not just like me. That’s not a mole, it’s a blemish.” He pouts. “And Jimmy’s not the only one with a mole like that; the lead vocalist seems to have one, too.” He points, not that Rose can risk taking a look. “Nothing wrong with moles, anyway,” he mutters, once again rubbing his throat. He says something else, but the driver behind her chooses right then to honk his horn, then zoom past her. Rose just smiles and nods at the Doctor.

“So, why are you coming to Torchwood today, anyway?” she asks, desperate to talk about something besides the Doctor’s obvious man-crush.

“I need to talk to your Dad. Well, step-Dad. Alternate Dad. Whatever you call Pete. And…” he hesitates. “I… I need to talk to your doctor. I don’t know much about this hybrid body, and, well, it’s acting weird,” he blurts out.

She refrains from making any comments. Barely.

“I couldn’t sleep last night, and now I’m sore and have stomach cramps. Is that normal?” he asks desperately.

How’s she supposed to know? The other Doctor didn’t give them an instruction manual for Care and Feeding of Your Time-Lord/Human Biological Metacrisis. Thoughtless of him, really. “I don’t know… is this anything like regeneration? Maybe it’ll all fade after a cup of tea.”

“Maybe,” he sighs, and stares out the window. Rose has the feeling he’s disappointed with her, and she doesn’t know why.

~oOo~

“Are you feeling all right?” she asks. It’s the end of the day, and the Doctor looks worse than he did that morning. He hadn’t said anything when they climbed in the SUV, and even now he’s staring listlessly out the window.

He doesn’t answer immediately, and that’s when Rose realizes it’s something serious.

“Doctor?” she asks in alarm. “You’re… you’re all right, aren’t you?” She can’t lose this one. She _can’t!_ He may not be a perfect copy of the original, but this is still the Doctor, still her mate, her responsibility.

“I’m always all right,” he mutters.

“No you’re not. Something’s wrong. Please, tell me.”

“You promise not to laugh?” he asks plaintively.

Laugh? What the hell is wrong with him that she’d _laugh?_ “I promise,” she says.

He mumbles something Rose doesn’t catch. “What did you say?”

“I said it’s hormones!” he yells. His cheeks are faintly pink, and he can’t seem to meet her eyes. “According to Dr. Harper, I have feminine hormones. Not many,” he adds hastily, “and it’s just a few hormones, no actual equipment, but this body was created using a human female as a template and there were a few… quirks as a result.”

Rose is speechless, which the Doctor misinterprets. “I’m still all male,” he continues defensively. “I just have some confused glands. And most of the time my hormones should be fine; it’s just a little wonky right now because Donna’s about to start her menstrual cycle and my body’s biorhythms seem to be synched with hers. Nothing to worry about!”

It finally sinks in what he’s trying to tell her. “Are… are you telling me you have PMT?” she asks incredulously. The SUV swerves, nearly hitting the car coming up beside them.

“Watch the road!” he snaps. Then he sighs. “Just a few symptoms. It’ll be over in a few days.” He turns back to the window, clearly not wanting to talk about it any more.

“Wait… how do you know it’s Donna’s time of the month? You don’t have some connection with her, do you?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve traveled with a _lot_ of women, Rose,” he says emphatically. “Paying attention to their monthly cycles was a defense mechanism. Hell hath no fury like a companion at that time of the month.” He shudders. “I’d take Cybermen any day…”

So, he’d known, every time? _How?_ She wasn’t that obvious about it, was she? What else had he known that she would rather have been kept private? This intimate, omniscient knowledge of her biology made her uncomfortable; it made the Doctor seem like some pervy Santa. Maybe he’s just bluffing to make himself sound good.

She _hopes_ he’s bluffing.

“All right… tell me one adventure we had where I had my period,” she challenges.

“When we faced the Krillitane,” he says triumphantly, smirking. “You kept sniping at poor Sarah Jane, who was just trying to help!”

“I was jealous,” Rose mutters. “You were paying more attention to her than me.”

“Oh? Then why weren’t you jealous of Reinette a few days later? She and I even danced, and you didn’t say a word. Clearly, hormones at work.” He leans back, satisfied. 

He’s right, but she’s not ready to concede. Besides, he’s just dropped a bombshell. “Do you mean dance? Or _dance?_ ” she asks, shocked. “And _when?_ ”

“Yup,” the Doctor says unhelpfully. “And it was around when you were captured by the repair droids. Difference in the flow of time, remember? In the few minutes you were unconscious, I attended a party where I invented the banana daiquiri. My Superior Time Lord Metabolism has no chance against alcohol infused with bananas. Got totally sloshed for almost twenty whole minutes.”

“I thought that… was a plan,” she says weakly. “That you were pretending.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes. “Rose, they were _robots._ Drunk, sober, they wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d come in carrying a rocket launcher; they wouldn’t have reacted until I’d interfered. Well, maybe a rocket launcher would’ve caught their attention, because who runs around carrying a rocket launcher they don’t intend to use? But you get my point.” 

The point being that he had neatly distracted her from the fact that he was suffering from a very female problem. Well, she’ll let it go for now, since this was still very new and very embarrassing for him. She won’t laugh. Yet.

Then she has a frightening thought. This Doctor had been left in Pete’s World because of his genocidal tendencies. That can’t go well with PMT…

~oOo~

The Doctor elected to stay home the next day, complaining of cramps. Probably a good thing, because work had sucked.

Both figuratively and literally. She’d been sucked into the maw of a Trun!S’lort Slug, and while her team had managed to cut her out before it could begin to digest her, she’d been covered with a slime that had made her skin break out in a rash, despite the two showers and the salve Dr. Harper had given her.

Out of sympathy for her misery (or perhaps to avoid her foul temper), they send her home early. 

Which is how she manages to come across a sight she’d never expected to see.

The Doctor. In her room. Wearing a dress.

He is wearing her _dress._ Her wine red bridesmaid dress with its corseted top and flared skirt which flatters his ass more than it does hers. He’s holding her shoes, the six-inch-stiletto-monstrosities-from-Hell, and eying them speculatively.

Her purse slips from numb fingers and hits the floor with a thud. The Doctor whirls around, hiding the shoes behind his back guiltily.

Yeah. Because _that’s_ the worst of his problems…

“Rose!” he yelps. “There… there’s an explanation for this. A really, really good one. And when I think of it, you’ll be blown away.”

“That’s my dress…” she says faintly.

“Yes, it is,” the Doctor says, frantically yanking at the zip in back. “And, er, it’s stuck.”

“That’s my _bridesmaid_ dress,” Rose says, not quite sure if this makes it worse or not.

“Yes,” the Doctor agrees, still clawing at the stubborn zipper. “And it’s quite lovely. I don’t suppose you could give me a hand here?”

Rose complies, tugging until the zipper gives. The dress slips down the Doctor’s long torso, and catches on a pair of lacy knickers Rose knows didn’t come from the men’s department at Henriks.

 _At least he isn’t wearing a bra,_ Rose thinks with a hysterical laugh. _That’d just be weird._

“I… I don’t suppose I can blame the hormones, can I?” he asks, his voice very small.

Rose just stares for a long moment. “I need a drink,” she sighs.

~tbc~


	5. Alcohol

**V. Alcohol**

“Your dress?” Jackie frowns.

It’s the night before the big wedding, and they’d arrived at the hotel several hours earlier. It’s the first time she’s been able to speak to Jackie since the hair dye incident and, fortunately, her mum had sensed that Rose needed someone to talk to.

Maybe it was the fact that Rose had headed straight towards the bar and was still there hours later that had clued her in.

“How’d it look on him?” Jackie demands.

“Mum!”

“What? A little gender role reversal is fun once in awhile,” she says defensively. “Pete has this little French maid’s outfit we sometimes use-“

“MUM!” Rose decides she’s going to need Retcon after this.

Lots of it.

“I’m just saying,” Jackie says, “it’s not unheard of. Now, how did he look?”

Rose stares at Jackie for a long moment. She remembers how he looked, all angles and pale, creamy skin and shapely (if somewhat hairy) legs. “It was a good color for him,” she finally mutters. She’s tried not to think about it. The last few days, they’ve barely spoken, with him spending most of his days either at Torchwood or interviewing at London’s premiere entertainment and gossip magazines (from which he’s already had two call backs.) They’ve been doing a good job of avoiding each other.

Unfortunately, because Rose’s room had been booked months in advance, and the hotel has no more rooms available, she has to share a room with him. Which is why she fled to the hotel bar as soon as they’d run the security check gauntlet (during which the Doctor found out about his criminal past as a repeat streaker) and she’d dropped off her suitcase.

“It’s probably just a phase, Rose.” But even her oblivious mum is starting to sound doubtful. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Everything else’s normal, right? Physically, I mean?”

 _No, ‘sexually’, you mean…_ “I don’t know,” Rose sighs heavily. She decides not to mention the PMT, or her mum would never let him live it down.

“You mean… you haven’t… Rose! You’ve been mooning over that man since we first arrived in this world. I’d’ve thought by now you two would have more than made up for lost time.” Jackie sounds disappointed, and Rose suppresses a groan. She’s not ready for the ‘grandchildren’ speech again.

“’s not the same man,” Rose mumbles. “He’s a biological metacrisis.”

“Speaking of which, there’s Mister Biological Gendercrisis right now,” Jackie says.

Rose turns. Sure enough, the Doctor has entered the bar, amidst a crowd of party guests that include at least one Oscar winner and two that have Grammys. He’s wearing the blue pinstripe suit, which she grudgingly admits looks good on him when accompanied by a proper dress shirt and tie. He somehow seems to be the center of attention (much to the disgust of one actress at the edge of the crowd, a diva who’s short on talent but long on attitude.) They make a beeline for the bar and begin chugging down shots. Rose gapes as the Doctor downs three with almost no interruption to the animated conversation he’s having with the celebrities.

He catches her watching, gives her a wink, then turns back to his conversation with one of the Grammy winners.

Jackie watches unashamedly. “He looks like he’s chatting that man up, doesn’t he?”

Rose tries not to look, but she can’t help watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“Just remember, honey: tomorrow, you’re going to be part of the Wedding of the Century. You’re going to remember this for the rest of your life. You’re part of history now. It’ll be something you can look back on fondly, whenever life’s got you down.”

They glance over towards where the Doctor’s laughter is becoming more frequent, and steadily more hysterical. Clearly, he doesn’t have a Superior Time Lord Metabolism any more, and the drink is hitting him hard. He also now has his arm around the male Grammy winner. “God knows you’re going to need it.”

~oOo~

He’s grinning like an idiot as he introduces himself to the wedding guests, an hour before the wedding. Despite staggering into their shared hotel room sometime after 3 in the morning and collapsing in a heap on the floor, he’s not even hung over. The bastard.

It doesn’t take him long to ingratiate himself to all of the guests, though he avoids President Harriet Jones. Rose watches from her place on the dais, bored by the proceedings, but fascinated by the ease with which the Doctor charms celebrities and politicians alike.

It seems to take forever for the actual wedding to start, with celebrities and politicians bickering over the best seats, despite the seating chart, and frazzled security guards are working over time to protect the high-profile guests from both the handful of press allowed to attend, and their own monstrous egos. Fortunately, her mum and Pete have seats next to Harriet Jones; otherwise Jackie would be fighting tooth and claw for the best seat.

But eventually, everyone is seated, the music begins, and the bride enters. Rose has to admit that Madelaine Jones looks breathtaking, and feels a stab of envy for a future she can’t have. Not when the man she fancies is probably wondering how he’d look in the wedding gown.

The wedding drags on, and Rose tunes out, focusing solely on keeping her balance in her shoes, which becomes more difficult the wearier she gets. Then one of the other bridesmaids, some politician’s daughter, nudges her ribs and Rose snaps to attention. She listens to the priest’s droning, then nearly whoops when she recognizes what point of the wedding they’ve reached.

It’s is nearly over, and then she can get out of the backbreaking high heels from hell and change into a more comfortable dress before she has to attend the reception and mingle with the guests.

“…let them speak now, or forever hold their peace.”

No one is prepared for what happens next, least of all Rose.

“I object!”

Everyone turns to the tall, skinny man in a tuxedo, the mysterious stranger who had arrived on the arm of the Vitex heiress. He bounces out of his seat and strides forward down the aisle. At first, Rose wants to die from shame, afraid that his objection stems from his obvious man-crush on Jimmy Stone. Then she sees he’s holding an open bottle of whiskey, and she wants to do more than die: she wants to go back in time and wipe herself out of existence, so she won’t be here to see her plus one make a drunken ass of himself during the Wedding of the Century.

Then he reaches the edge of the dais, and Rose can see the look in his eyes: cold sober, with barely contained fury in their depths. The Oncoming Storm was about to break.

“Who are you?” Madelaine Jones hisses.

“I’m Rose Tyler’s plus one,” he says cheerfully. “And I’ve come to tell you you’re making a huge mistake. Jimmy Stone isn’t the man you think he is. In fact, he’s not any kind of man at all.”

Madelaine gives an indignant squeak. Jimmy pats her shoulder soothingly. “Ignore him, love. He’s been reading too many tabloids. Though this is a new one. Tell me; who’s been spreading stories about my manliness? She’s lying.” The assembled crowd laughs nervously.

“I can vouch for Jimmy being all man,” Madelaine purrs. “I can’t imagine why anyone would say otherwise.” Rose rolls her eyes. This is definitely not the Jimmy she remembers.

“Because you’re not human, are you, Jimmy? Not anymore, anyway. You’re hosting a Vrrexian! Have been for about, oh, six months, which means there’s nothing left of the real Jimmy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Jimmy snarls. 

Security is moving to flank the Doctor, but he ignores them.

“But why take over Jimmy? Vrrexians usually avoid drawing attention to themselves. Unless…” he glances at Madelaine, then turns towards Harriet Jones, who is being prevented from coming up onto the dais by her security guards. “You want the presidency! You’re using Madelaine to get close to Harriet, and then you can sweep through the ministry — er, cabinet — and have control over England.” The Doctor raises an eyebrow. “Clever. But not as clever as me.”

“You’re insane!” Jimmy shouts. “This is… You’re wrong!”

“Really? I don’t think so. I’m never wrong. Well, maybe once, but it was just a small thing. And in this case… I know I’m right.”

And then several things happen at once.

The Doctor’s hand darts forward, delivering a sharp jab to Jimmy’s throat.

Madelaine screeches.

The closest security guard prepares to bring the Doctor down with a flying tackle.

And then Jimmy Stone changes.

His body swells outward, becoming a bulky mass of muscle beneath taut skin. Guests scream as four others — Jimmy’s band — undergo a similar transformation, and charge towards the Doctor.

With an inhuman roar, Jimmy lunges forward, his body moving with a peculiar boneless fluidity as joints bent ways they weren’t intended to, fingers curled into claws. 

The guests scream and scatter. To the security guards’ credit, several actually look as if they want to stay and help the Doctor with the alien threat, but instead assist with evacuating the church and herding their charges to safety. Soon, it’s just Rose, the Doctor, and Jimmy Stone and his band. They’re totally ignoring her, which Rose finds a little insulting.

The five members of the DedHeds loom over him, and Rose climbs atop a pew so she can launch herself at one of the monsters’ backs. The stiletto heel of one of her shoes snaps, and with a curse, she tumbles backwards and misses her chance.

Through the gap between the Vrrexians, she can see the Doctor as he stands defiant, and her heart does a little flutter. This is the Doctor she has fallen in love with, the man who laughs at danger, who faces impossible odds and wins.

Rose realizes she’s very turned on right now. 

As she watches, he takes a large swig of alcohol — and spits it out, hitting the Vrrexian in front of him right in the throat. It roars and claws at its throat, which is rapidly swelling. As it staggers away, the Doctor repeats the maneuver with two Vrrexians who are advancing on him, with the same effect. Before he can turn, the Vrrexian who had been Jimmy Stone grabs the Doctor and flings him into a pew, and the wine bottle goes flying.

Rose hobbles towards it, grabbing it before the rest of the whiskey can spill out, then whirls and splashes it on the fourth Vrrexian.

“Rose!” The Doctor is crawling under the pews, trying to evade Jimmy, whose monstrous fist is smashing the benches apart almost as fast as the Doctor can crawl under them.

Rose glances at the bottle in her hand. There’s just enough left for Jimmy, if she can just get him to turn around. She doesn’t know why the Doctor has been aiming for the throat, but she trusts that he has a reason, and that splashing it anywhere else would do no good. So she stuffs the bottle into her cleavage and picks up a slab of wood that had been part of a pew. She nearly staggers under its weight, not expecting it to be so solid a wood.

All the better; when she brings it down on Jimmy’s head, he falls hard. She pulls out the whiskey bottle as the Doctor grabs Jimmy’s neck, exposing his throat and the little mole in the hollow, which suddenly looks much bigger and darker than she remembered. “There!” he cries. Rose obediently dumps the rest of the liquor over the mole, then backs away as Jimmy begins thrashing.

Around her, the Vrrexians have swollen to incredible sizes, their skin stretched taut to near translucence like over-filled balloons. _Oh, no…_

“Rose! Take cover!”

She instinctively obeys, throwing herself behind an intact pew just as a series of horrible wet popping sounds echo through the church. She remains where she is until she hears a loud groan, and scrambles to her feet, looking for the Doctor.

“I didn’t expect them to _explode,_ ” he says petulantly. “I told you tuxes are bad luck.”

The Doctor is sitting in the middle of a pile of splintered benches, his tux and hair coated with the thick, foul-smelling snot-colored sludge that passed for the Vrrexian’s blood. He looks so indignant that she can’t help it; she starts laughing.

Rose has to admit, her mum is right. She’s definitely going to remember this for the rest of her life.

 

~tbc~


	6. Love

**VI. Love**

It’s the aftermath of the Wedding Disaster of the Century. Not that many people will remember; at Harriet Jones’ order, the guests have been given Retcon, all cameras, camcorders, and mobiles have been retrieved and all footage and photos deleted, and everyone, including Madelaine, believes that Jimmy had a relapse on his wedding day, and Madelaine called the whole thing off. Later, Torchwood will come up with some sort of accident that tragically killed the entire band.

Only Harriet Jones, the Doctor, Rose, Pete, and Jackie know the whole story.

A splinter of flying pew had grazed the Doctor’s temple, and Rose is examining it critically. It isn’t deep, but it’s bleeding profusely. Fortunately, it doesn’t look like it needs stitches, and the first aid kit supplied by the hotel has an adequate amount of bandages. She ignores the Doctor’s whines about disfiguring scars and carefully dabs an antibiotic over the wound before applying the bandages. 

“So… you knew they were aliens.” She keeps her tone neutral, but inside, she’s annoyed. If he’d just told her, she and Torchwood would have been ready, and they could have avoided the whole fiasco.

“I had my suspicions,” he admits. “It was the photos in the gossip magazines; they all had a mole in the same place, right where the breathing orifices are located.” He shrugs. “Your story about Jimmy going clean overnight thanks to the power of love was further proof that something was wrong, but I needed to see these celebrities in person to be sure. And then, when I shook their hands, I knew.”

“And you didn’t say anything? I could have helped you!” And it would’ve gotten her out of being a bridesmaid.

“I needed to see if I could still handle situations like this on my own.” He sighs, shoulders sagging. “And I made a mess of it, didn’t I?”

She sits on the bed next to him, and takes his hands in hers.

“You were brilliant,” she tells him. “Especially considering you were armed only with a bottle of whiskey. Which, by the way, you shouldn’t have been able to bring inside. Didn’t security search you? Seems like they would’ve found it.”

The Doctor just gives her a crooked grin, and Rose decides she doesn’t want to know.

“So,” she says instead. “Vrrexians. What are they, then?”

“Nasty creatures, the Vrrexians. Start off the size of marbles and take up residence in your throat, where they sprout ganglia that hook into the spine and take over the body. Over time, they eat their way through the body, growing and replacing the host’s organs with their own, until there’s nothing left of the host except the skin and skeleton. Leaves them with a skin suit that they can alter at will — depending on the limitations of the skin, that is. They’re usually not this ambitious, though, and tend to keep to themselves. This group seems to like celebrities and has delusions of world conquest.” He smirks. “They’re also violently allergic to alcohol, so taking over a planet like this is going to be difficult. They probably infested Jimmy and his band right after he met Madelaine. They saw an opportunity to get close to the President through her daughter, took over Jimmy and turned him into someone she’d fall in love with.”

“Why Jimmy? Why not Madelaine, or even Harriet Jones? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“Jimmy’s body would’ve been weak from hard living. A healthy body’s immune system could fight the infestation and win. There are ways to weaken a strong host, but it takes time. I suspect Jimmy’s been slipping something to Madelaine, in food or drink perhaps, to prepare her as a host. Then they would’ve done the same to Harriet.”

“That was why you were obsessing over Jimmy?” She seizes on this. “So, this fascination with gossip… it’s just an excuse to find aliens?”

“Wellllll,” he rubs the back of his neck, and glowers when his hand comes away covered in slime. “Part of it, yeah…” 

It seems there’s more of the Doctor in him than she’d dared hope. But then, hope fades when the Doctor pulls his hand from her grasp. His next words send her heart plummeting.

“Rose… we need to talk,” he sighs.

Rose stiffens and turns away, focusing her attention on gathering up the bandage wrappers and throwing them in the rubbish bin. It was time… She mentally steels herself, and decides to make this easier on him.

“I know what you’re going to say. You’re gay. It’s all right,” she says soothingly, as the Doctor splutters behind her. “I’m not angry. I know it’s not your fault. You’re as much Donna as you are the Doctor, and that’s just the way it happened.” She turns to face him and shrugs. “I’ll still be your friend, no matter what happens.” 

“I’m not gay!” He looks genuinely shocked. “Why would you think that?” he demands indignantly.

“You haven’t even touched me since the beach! You called Jimmy Stone ‘dishy’ and you wear my make-up and clothing! You spent all last evening flirting with that male singer! What am I supposed to think?”

“It was you who called Jimmy ‘dishy,’” he points out. “I just… sort of agreed with you.” He considers this for a moment. “I see how that could’ve been misleading. As for the singer… He’s a Calafrasian. They’re a little intimate by nature, and he was delighted to find someone familiar with his species. And what were you expecting? That I’d want to start shagging like rabbits the moment the TARDIS dematerialized? I was dumped on you without you having any choice in the matter! I though you’d need some time — I know I certainly do.” He tugs at his hair. “I wanted to get used to this body and its…its impulses, before even attempting a relationship.”

What he’s suggesting sounds reasonable. More than reasonable, actually. But it also sounds slow and tedious, and it’s been far too long since Rose has been with a man. Was he even interested in a physical relationship, or was he just referring to their previous hand-holding, more-than-friends-but-soooo-not -lovers relationship? She has to know.

“Do you… not want to shag like rabbits, then?”

He suddenly seems to find the wallpaper pattern the most interesting thing in the world. Rose realizes with shock that he’s blushing. “Sometimes it’s all I can think about. This body… it has a lot less control than what I’m used to, and… I spend my days dreaming about doing this.” He cups her face, his long fingers stroking her cheeks, and then lowers his head and presses his lips to hers.

 _He’s found banana lip gloss,_ is her last coherent thought, before she’s lost in his kiss. Well, that, and _He really can do marvelous things with his tongue…_

He breaks off, murmuring, “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have done that without knowing how you feel… I can’t always help myself; this body is more emotionally driven than I’m accustomed to.”

She wants to reassure him he has nothing to apologize for, but she’s been rendered speechless. She does, however, manage a satisfied smile, and he relaxes.

“I just wanted to take it slow… take some time to get to know you all over again until we’re free to travel again. You… you do want to travel with me again, don’t you? Or has all this weirded you out?” He gives her that same pleading look he’d given her when he’d first regenerated, part scared, part hopeful.

She smiles. “Alien, remember? You’ve always ‘weirded me out’, and it’s never stopped me before.” Then what he said sinks in. “What do you mean, travel?” She thinks he means the world, and her heart quickens. She’s always wanted to backpack through Europe, and the thought of doing it with him at her side…

He sniffs. “Haven’t you been listening to me? I’ve been going on about it for the past week! He — the other me — gave me a piece of TARDIS coral, and Pete’s given me permission to use Torchwood’s alien tech to grow it into a ship, in return for acting as an advisor.”

She stares, stunned. She’d thought he was talking about frying food, and all this time, he was growing a TARDIS! “The stars?” she breathes, hardly daring to hope. She’s missed seeing alien vistas, meeting new cultures on their own turf, shopping in exotic bazaars… She’s even missed the diplomatic incidents, the running, the alien prisons… But most of all, she’s missed the man sitting next to her, his eyes shining with excitement at the prospect of wandering the stars again.

“All of space and time,” he grins. “It’ll be a year or so before she’s ready, of course. And it won’t be the same,” he warns. “New engines, so we’ll have to break her in slowly. No long trips, or traveling too often. She won’t be a complete TARDIS, but she’ll have a couple of rooms, and be able to travel time and space. No multi-storey wardrobe, no food replicators, no pool… And I… I’m not the same either.” He runs his hands through his ginger hair. His dark roots are already showing. “You’re right; I do have more of Donna than is good for me and, well, sometimes that bit makes me do… things…” he gestures helplessly towards her dress. 

“So, basically, I’d be traveling time and space with a transvestite who gets PMT worse than I do?” Rose asks, lips quirking. “I’ve had worse offers.” She reaches towards him, taking his human-warm hand in her own. 

“Occasional, _compulsive_ transvestite,” he corrects, smiling. “One who loves you,” he adds, as if that makes it all right. Rose thinks it actually does. “But yeah, the Doctor and Rose against the universe — when we’re not attending one of your parents’ functions or sleeping in or shagging or whatever else it is normal humans do. Which is as it should be.” He takes his hands in hers.

Rose grins broadly. “And I’m sure we’ll look fabulous while doing it.” He nods excitedly.

And with that, it’s decided. They’re the Doctor and Rose again… but this time, with benefits.

“We’re getting a bigger flat, though,” she says after a moment. “That loo’s not big enough for the both of us. And you really need a room of your own to, er, get in touch with your feminine side.” She thinks for a moment, then asks gently, “You’re not wearing my knickers under there, are you? Because that’s one thing I’m really not comfortable with …”

“There’s only one way to find out,” he purrs.

She doesn’t need further invitation, though it doesn’t quite live up to the fantasies she’s been having about the tuxedo. There’d never been any phlegm-like alien sludge in any of them, and soon their hands are coated with the stuff.

Well, now she has an excuse to try out the shower fantasy.

It turns out that he’s not only not wearing her knickers, he’s also not wearing boxers. What he does have on, however, makes her stare, and she wonders if she really wants to know how he acquired the bride’s garter and managed to slip it on during the whole wedding fiasco.

Then she decides she doesn’t want to know. There are far more important things she can be doing with her time.

She gives him a teasing smile, tongue poking out between her teeth. “I don’t know about you,” she says breezily, “but I’m sore, sticky, and I smell. I could use some help out of this dress and into the shower.”

“Ah. Okay,” the Doctor says, sounding confused and disappointed and most of all, frustrated. His gaze is downcast. “You can use it first, if you like.”

She tugs on his hand. “I meant that we should both take a shower. At the same time. Together.” 

His eyes widen, and he grins. “Ah. I knew that.” He stands and starts to follow her across the room.

“Oh, and Doctor? Keep the garter on.”

~fin~


End file.
